


Sincerely, Your Sociopath

by usuallyfunctioning



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Fluff and Angst, Heartbreaking, Heavy Angst, Johnlock - Freeform, Letters, Love, Love Letters, M/M, Obsession, POV Sherlock Holmes, Possessive Sherlock, Post-His Last Vow, Post-Reichenbach, Pre-Reichenbach, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Romance, Sad, Sad Ending, Slash, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-12
Updated: 2014-07-09
Packaged: 2018-02-04 09:35:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1774366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/usuallyfunctioning/pseuds/usuallyfunctioning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>High-functioning sociopath Sherlock Holmes writes letters to John Watson. They're Sherlock's way of coping with, well, everything. But there's no way he'd ever let the doctor read his twisted thoughts. </p><p>Until the day John Watson's curiosity draws him to the envelopes addressed to him with velvet handwriting. </p><p>Everything changes, and John writes a letter back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Letter

**Author's Note:**

> So this is a collection of love letters written by the one and only Sherlock Holmes, directed towards John. Eventually there will be John and Sherlock's story revolving around the letters. 
> 
> Anyway, I really hope you enjoy reading this! It would make my day if you left a comment. I always appreciate reviews and constructive criticism!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A pre-Reichenbach letter

Dear John Watson-

I’d first like to establish that I am not a sentimental human being. 

Secondly, these letters are not to be read. Even if you are John Watson. Stop now, and I won’t kill you. Please don’t read this, John, I don’t want to kill you. I don’t want you to leave me.

One last thing before I begin: I am a sociopath. I love you. I am a walking contradiction, and I perplex even myself. 

And finally a reminder: I’d never kill you, John. Not on purpose. Not unless you asked. But maybe not even then, because I am so indisputably selfish.

Our flat is dark, and you are sleeping. You tend to do that, but sleeping is boring. I can tell by your eyelids and your breathing and the haunted whispers and whimpers that caress your chapped lips when you dream about the War that you are in the REM stage of sleeping, paradoxical sleep. I watch you nearly every night: an experiment. You don’t notice. I must blend into the shadows when you awaken screaming or crying or sobbing. I want you to know that my greatest desire is to wrap you tight in my arms or kiss your face, but I stay still and I watch because I know how you treasure your twisted normality and I am far from normal. 

Another desire, for I have so many: to be your nightmares, John. 

For your simple, mundane, beautiful mind I will elaborate. But only for you. I want to be everything in your head. All the time. I cannot deny my unfeigned jealousy for the deserts and gunshots of Afghanistan. They plague your dreams at night, but I should be the one consuming your consciousness. Only me. I can be your bullets and guns and bloodshed and blazing sun, John. Please, let me be your sun. Then you can wake up screaming and crying and sobbing because of me and finally you will let me hold you in my arms and assure you that I am here, and I am your everything. And you are mine. 

I am such a selfish man. You should hate me. I’m acutely astounded you don’t, always have been. That’s what differs you from the despicable ordinary, John. You’re such the opposite. When you look at me, your eyes lack hatred and disgust and revulsion. No, you’re kind. 

But that makes you the opposite of me. And the opposite of ordinary. And the opposite of bad, while bad is the opposite of good. Which is anything but me and everything but ordinary. Let’s be a mangled web of ivy climbing and clinging to the solidity of our flat. Confusing and twisting and tangling and pointless and oddly wonderful. Metaphors are tedious. I bore myself.

Can we grow ivy, John? Stupid question. Ivy is senseless and pointless and oddly wonderful. No, I am not a sentimental man, and I will not ask for verdure because it triggers thoughts of you. Us. Our tangled opposites. 

Tangled opposites and tangled ivy. I want to tangle our bodies. I want to be wrapped in you. You, everywhere. I could wear your skin like a coat; I think I would like that. I would ask you, but you’d say no, and I’d kill you if I skinned you. 

I don’t want to kill you.

But, John. It’s only fair to inform you of another desire. If you had to die, we all do in the end, I want to be the one killing you. I want you to know your life is in my hands and still trust me and I want to be the last thing you see with your beautiful eyes. I want you to love me enough to let me do that, but only if you had to die. 

Now reverse that, reverse it all. 

I want you to kill me. Not now, but when I have to die. We all have to die in the end. I want you to be the last thing I see. I want you to know that I trust you to end me, to hold my life in your hands. I trust you with everything I am. 

You see, this is what confuses me. I hate people. I trust nobody. I am a sociopath incapable of feeling. I am a machine. 

And I am undeniably, uncontrollably, infinitely in love with you.

I don’t understand it, and it’s driving me mad. Sod it, I’m already fucking crazy. You know that, and you are sleeping in the same flat as me. You trust me. Why? You shouldn’t trust me, I’m a sociopath. 

I’m so fucking glad you trust me. Contradictions and entanglements.

Because you are my everything. I’m nothing but a dark mass of broken and deformed consciousness. I am not my body, I am not the bloody english language, I am not my actions. I am thought and genius suspended in nothing. I am nothing, you are everything. I need you. Don’t you understand?

You need me, too. You’re fascinated by me. I took away your limp and you’ve been intrigued ever since. I’m afraid I’ll scare you away. 

But then I remember that I am a sociopath incapable of feeling afraid. 

I am still afraid you will leave me. 

Romanticized and nauseatingly poetic, you are a lighthouse. If you failed to stay near me, John, I would crash and sink and burn and die. In every way I could. On purpose? Probably. 

Soft cries caress your trembling lips, and the nightmares implode your sleeping brain. Couldn’t they be about me, John, just this once? My desire: dream about me. Another: to run a finger across your parted lips. Kiss them, maybe. Definitely. I would bite at them and taste your blood. Bliss. Don’t be afraid of me.

I’m not a sentimental man, John Watson, and I am still at a loss for explaining my reasoning behind putting this down on old paper. I won’t give it to you, and I’m not sorry about that. I don’t want you reading this, in case you would leave me. I’d scare you away. That would kill me, and I don’t want that. I want you to be the one killing me.

You confuse me. 

I love you.

I don’t know why I love you and that is the most incomprehensible and infuriating obstacle I have ever encountered. 

You’re waking up screaming. I become the shadows. I’ve always been the shadows. You don’t see me, and I can’t help but wonder if you ever see me. You’re beautiful when you cry. Why are you beautiful? Of course you’re beautiful; You’re everything.

Sincerely, Your Sociopath.  
Sherlock Holmes


	2. A Regret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A post-Reichenbach letter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi Everyone. Thank you for spending the time to read my fic. 
> 
> Please leave a comment, if you'd like! I appreciate all feedback. Hope you enjoy.

Dear John Watson—

I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Not for saving you, but for dying. 

I had no choice. 

He would have killed you. 

Don’t you understand why I had to do it? Why I had to lie to you and leave you? Please understand. I had no choice. I should probably tell you that I’m not dead, not really. 

I’m sitting in a cheap motel room in eastern Europe. I wish it was our flat. Are you still there, John? In our flat? 

If you and I were both there I would prove to you I’m not dead. I would shove you—shove us—against the wall and dig my fingers into your shoulders, and kiss you like I’ve always thought I should. I would whisper against your lips that I’m not dead and that I won’t leave again and that I’m sorry and that I know I am a sociopath but still my mind is clouded with emotions for you and only ever you. 

If you and I were both in our flat right now, I would be everything in your head and on your body and in your ears. I know you’d let me be.

I’ve so many questions for you. I’ve so many unanswered thoughts swarming and ricocheting through my broken mind. (Do you think of me? Do you whimper my name in your sleep now? Have I become your Afghanistan, John? Your war? I have dreamt of you so often that sometimes I question your realness.) I want to write them down and send this letter to you, but I can’t. If I were to fold this sheet of paper that has been bloodied with ink and slip it into an envelope and address it to you and send it in the post, you wouldn’t be safe. Then what would be the point of saving you in the first place? 

I read once, I don’t know when—sometime in my childhood, “First we feel. Then we fall.” James Joyce, I think. I found it tucked away in the dusty corners of my mind. Astonishingly suiting to our situation. My side of it anyway, because I never felt anything at all my whole life. Nothing but the meaningless high of narcotics or the lonely superiority that comes as a package deal with a mind such as mine. Then I met you, you met me, and I could finally see in colour. 

And I felt something. Everything. You are everything. You let me feel. I don’t know how; I shouldn’t be capable of feeling. 

Oh, but I am, John Watson, and you let me. But then a madman—not me, another—shattered and ravaged our life. At first I was beguiled by his mind. He thought like me and nobody thinks like me and naturally I had to know why. Curiosity is the devil. So I played his game. I dragged you into his game. We lost together.

You should hate me, because really, it wasn’t him that shattered and ravaged our life. No, it was me. I’m a prolonged explosion, deconstructing and devastating everything I encounter with precise slowness. Even you. The thought makes me hate myself. Like you must hate me now. 

So then I fell. First I felt, then I fell. Poetry. It wasn’t just the plummet of my body towards the pavement. It was the metaphoric destruction of my pulsing heart. It was the unimaginably rapid decent of my being. From a life with you to a life without. 

I am so sorry.

I harvest hope that you never loved me as I have always loved you, that our fortuitous touches meant nothing, that the something in our glances was only one-sided. Maybe, just maybe, our strange relationship—if I can call it that—meant nothing to you but kindness and pity towards an anomalous flatmate. Perhaps, if you never loved me as I have always loved you, you aren’t hurting. 

Because I don’t want to hurt you. Only if you asked, and maybe not even then, because I am a selfish man and I don’t want to see your worn face twisted in pain. I don’t want to feel any more agony. I’ve recently learnt that sometimes feeling can become too much. Too intense. Too colourful. 

I wonder: If I just sit at this cheap motel desk and write and write and write this letter to you, will I gain the layer of dust that has already claimed each surface in this room? 

I am a creature of darkness and dust. Without you. 

What are you without me? Because I think I am your chaos. The thing about chaos, John, is that while it disturbs us, it too, forces our hearts to roar in a way we secretly find magnificent. 

There is one night, John, that I have frozen in time. It is suspended in my mind as if it happened yesterday, an hour ago, a second ago. I never told you about it; I never will. You’d be probably be mad at me, tell me about personal space and privacy and all those tedious nothings I don’t know why you even bother with. I can tell you now, though, because you will never read these words that have spilt from my fingertips. 

You are asleep, lying on your back. Are you dead? I wonder. That is how still you are. I have to focus on the sound of your shallow breathing to remind myself of your aliveness. I reach out my hand. It is an involuntary movement of muscles and tendons, much like the beating of a heart and the pumping of blood. I rest a finger on your cheek and trace my name. Then I trace your name. Then I trace shapes and images from past cases and your favorite type of tea and all the things you have ever said to me. I trace my fingers in patterns along your skin and if ever there was a moment to be able to freeze time, this would be it, this would be it. 

And I did as best as I could. But it wasn’t good enough, because here I am, without you. This is a memory of mine, and it is dripping with sentiment, but I am not a sentimental man. Am I, though? Memories are the architecture of our identity. 

I was scared again, on the rooftop of St. Bart’s, I want to tell you. That’s only twice I’ve been scared now in my entire lifetime. Remember, I never felt things before you. 

The first time: It occurred to me that you might someday leave me. 

The second time I experienced fear: I realized that I had no choice but to leave you. 

Mycroft told me I was being courageous, that I couldn’t have been afraid, because I am a sociopath. Sociopaths can’t feel fear, he reminded me. I convince myself that courage is not the absence fear, but rather the judgement that something else is more important. (You.)

Sometimes it helps, usually it doesn’t. 

Would it make sense to you, John, if I told you that my new reality feels like I am playing a game I have no chance of winning? It doesn’t make much sense to me either. But everything makes sense to me. 

This letter hurts. I don’t know why I fucking endure it. 

I’m sorry. I miss you. I hope you understand. You always understand. You’re the only one who has ever understood. Still I think my heart has scars you never could understand. But that isn’t your fault, it’s mine. All of it is my fault. That isn’t a surprise to either of us, but I am admitting it, and surely that in itself was unforeseen. 

Someday I will come back to you. (Was that surprising?)

Sincerely, Your Sociopath.  
Sherlock Holmes


	3. A False Denouement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a post-series 3 letter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, readers!
> 
> This letter was tougher to write than its predecessors, but I do hope you like it. 
> 
> I'll try to keep updating every day or so! Thank you for reading (: Halfway to the end.

Dear John Watson—

I don’t know how to start. 

My mind is too full, John. Far too full. 

I’ll start here.

We used to chase criminals and masterminds through deadly currents hidden beneath the peaceful calm of London, you and I. Thieves and killers, rapists and liars. You see, there are those who deserve to die, and there are those who want to. 

Let me tell you, John Watson. Now, death sounds like a melody to me. A lilting melody tugged gently from the minor of my violin. I want to hear more. 

Why? Your kind, naive mind asks. (I know it does.) Because I love you. Because you chose her. 

Mary is dependable, sweet, charming, domestic, and normal. Everything I never could be. Mary is adventurous, dangerous, thrilling, and intelligent. Everything I know you can’t live without. Mary is not life-threatening, a sociopath, obsessive, rude, obnoxious, a freak, incapable, or inexperienced. I am. It’s simple. I should’ve known all along that it never would have been me. 

My thoughts were foggy and clouded with you, and they destroyed my judgment. They stomped on and crushed my logic mercilessly. I was drunk from the scent of your skin and the rhythm of your heartbeat. I was too far gone to remember that I am one who can never be loved in return. 

Molly once told me I looked sad when I thought no one was watching. I guess my body betrays my mind in its ceaseless battle for control over my emotions. It’s true: I am sad. I am lonely. I am defective, and of course you would never want me and why the fucking hell had I ever convinced myself otherwise?!

Did you know, John? That when I was just a little boy, the doctors called me a sociopath? Diagnosed me with a label to last my life. I hated it, until I had no choice but to use it as my shield. Sherlock is a freak. Not a freak, a sociopath. Does he even have feelings? Of course not, I am a sociopath. Sherlock, you machine. Yes, it is only expected. I am a sociopath. 

I lie to myself. I lie to myself. I lie to everyone. Even you, John. 

I’ll let you in on a secret, because no matter what choices you make, I think I will always love you. There. That’s proof. You will never love me, and still I love you. The secret is this: I’m not a sociopath, because I am exploding with feelings. Feelings a sociopath would never feel. You turned my life upside-down. Everything that was right is wrong. I am not a sociopath. 

And John, oh how I feel. I feel hatred, and loathing—for myself, who can never be normal for you—and anger, and jealousy, and betrayal—why do you love her?—and love, and such longing and yearning for something that never could have been. Why couldn’t it have been?

Mary is good for you.

But I would have been better, I think.

I know I am selfish, but I think you would have been good for me, too. You already were. Now that you’re gone again, do you suppose I’ll get worse? 

…I think I am already spiraling down that inescapable trajectory. 

It’s raining outside and it reminds me of that day. The one you asked me to delete. Begged me to just delete from my head. You should understand by now why I can’t. Why I don’t want to. Why I would never. 

Because this is how it went, to me at least. What stood out in your mind is a mystery, seeing that our intellect is so polar. 

Silver rain painted the windows of our flat. I was bored—nothing unusual. Sulking and snapping when all you were being was kind. Maybe if I hadn’t sulked, hadn’t snapped, you would love me? You offered me tea, but I was too far deep into my mind to acknowledge, hands steepled trademark under my chin. When I’m like this, you don’t think I can hear you, do you? An error. I listen to everything you tell me. 

You said, “Sherlock, I don’t know what to do.” I was silent, of course. You treated me like I was unconscious. “I love Mary,” you continued. I tried my hardest not to grimace. You would have realized that my mind was in fact not in the clouds, but next to you. “But I think.” You cleared your throat. “I might.” I knew you licked your lips even with my eyes closed. It’s a habit of yours, and I have catalogued your habits. “I might love you, too… sometimes.” You sat and watched me; I could feel your blue eyes boring into my skin. Finally you got up with a sigh. I began to drown in thought. Thoughts regarding you and only you. 

Hours later, I stood up. “How long?” I asked. “A couple hours,” you replied casually, like nothing had happened. You didn’t think I heard. But then you turned around and saw me and I saw you. 

Just a note: Eye contact. How souls catch fire.

It was all clear to you then, that I had heard. Naturally. Your observation skills are much more developed than I give you credit for; you are always surprising me. 

At first, all it was was a chaste brush of lips. Sweet, safe. Then you looked at me with the incorruptible emotions of your eyes. They were blue like they are when you wake up in the middle of the night: dark, dark blue. (Was I your nightmare? Finally?) 

Thunder caused our flat to convulse. Our lips met with corresponding intensity. So soon it was your calloused fingers in my hair and your sturdy hand on my waist. I gripped your shoulders and your arms like I was afraid of falling. You can’t blame me. Your tongue was in my mouth and my tongue was in your mouth and no matter how clearly I remember it, it’s still just a blur. 

Then you stilled. Then you stopped. Then you stepped away. 

I was breathing deeply. You were quiet. Until you spoke. “Forget that, Sherlock. Delete it, do whatever you… do. I’ve got to get back home. Night.” Your voice was stern. The home you were talking about was not 221B Baker Street. 

I closed my eyes and spoke to you in one thousand different ways, yet all that came out was a broken, “Okay.” 

Everything was wrong and nothing was right. I didn’t see you again for 30 days.You were avoiding me, it was obvious enough. Even now, on the rare occasions we encounter one another (which are decreasing in frequency at an alarming rate) you never talk about that night. 

Let me give you a piece of advice, if you ever have need of it. I doubt you will; you’re good with a gun.

Another way to murder someone: kiss them once and never again. 

Thinking about it, I suppose this could be a goodbye. 

Nothing dramatic, just a goodbye. A letter. A regret. An adieu to the era of Sherlock and John. Closure? But I am not a sentimental man—

No. I am lying to myself. I am lying to you. My body is constructed wholly of painful sentiment and worthless genius. You have flipped my life upside down. Turned my being inside out and twisted me in whatever way you could. But it isn’t your fault. It’s mine. 

This letter is a goodbye, but I still won’t give it to you. I won’t let you read it. 

Don’t worry, I am not planning a grand suicide. Or even a simple suicide. It is not that sort of goodbye. I’m going to live on. I think, though, living without you will be a death in itself. Perhaps it will be more painful, but isn’t that what I deserve? 

Mycroft once told me that I was courageous. It takes more courage to suffer than to die, John. 

Mary loves you, and I love you. You see only Mary. 

If that isn’t suffering, I don’t know what the hell is. 

I’ll always love you. But John, my world’s gone back to black and white.

Sincerely, Your Sociopath.  
Sherlock Holmes


	4. To Institute

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John, Post Season 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I hope everyone's summer is going well. Please comment, review, or critique if you have the time. 
> 
> Thank you!

Footsteps thud thud thud up the stairs past the door of our flat. I know in the slightest fraction of a second that they are yours. I would recognize your steps anywhere. 

“Evening, Sherlock,” You say, opening the door. 

I hum in response. Why are you here, John? Shouldn’t you be with Mary? Your expecting wife? This is odd. We haven’t seen each other in weeks now. I wonder what you’ve been doing—if you’ve been getting into enough trouble.

“I thought I’d stop by,” you smile, sitting down into your old chair with a good-natured huff. 

I’m sitting in my own chair, naturally, and staring at the ceiling. “I see that.”

“Alright,” you nod, egging on the conversation. You can’t deny the cumbersome tension that pulses and circulates through the flat around us. “So how’re you? How’ve you been?”

“Fine.” I tilt my head to look at you. I need to figure out why you’re so suddenly here, out of the blue. I need to deduce it… but nothing on your face or your clothes or your posture gives me any sort of indication. 

You bite your cheek. (Another habit.) “You don’t look fine.”

Of course I’m not fine. I’ve been deteriorating, fading without you. You are my everything. You’re gone and now I’m alone, like I always was and always will be. Why is it so hard for you to just understand that I love you, John!? 

“Then stop looking,” is all I say.

Your lips tighten in annoyance. Please forgive me if I don’t talk much at times, John. It’s loud enough in my head. 

I can’t take your narrowed, calculating glare, so I stand up and move to the window, choosing rather to gaze at the narrow street instead of your winsome face. This way, it might hurt less, your visit. 

“Sherlock,” you say sternly. I’ve no choice but to look at you. The fading light shines through the window and onto you. Where else? I swear, John, you carry the sun in the brilliant blue of your eyes. Usually it’s all dark. Not to everyone, no, but to me, the world’s always dark. 

Not now. Now you, I, our surroundings, we’re burning with the fluorescence of three billion bulbs. It’s enthralling, but you don’t seem to notice. 

“Sherlock, really, honestly, are you alright?” Concern has edged its way into your expressive voice. God, you’d be a good actor, because I know that it’s fake. Of course the concern is fake, because you don’t care about me, not really. 

I scoff, aloud I realize, when you pin me with the daggers in your eyes.

“What?” You snap. Annoyed again. Am I really that trying? Does it bother you that I’m not taking your counterfeit emotions seriously?

“Mary put you up to this, didn’t she?” I accuse. 

A hesitation. “No, of course not, Sherlock. Of course not.”

Too late now. You hesitated. “Yes…” I whisper, eyes widening. “Yes, she did! I knew it.” My voice raises, and I can’t help but throw my hands up for emphasis. 

You open your thin lips to defend yourself, but nothing comes out. 

“John, go check on Sherlock. Make sure he didn’t blow himself up or something,” I mock. “Go make sure he isn’t high again, yeah? Because he’s so fucked up without you.” 

“Sherlock, that’s not how it is,” you start. I’m sorry for interrupting you, but not really. 

“That’s exactly how it is,” I manage. “I haven’t seen you in weeks, John. Months, even.”

“Well have you ever thought of coming to see us? Mary and I, Sherlock?! Are these sort of matters always entirely my fault, huh?”

I can’t come to see Mary and you, John. I’m leaving you—giving you up—to your life of normalcy. I refuse to intrude and destroy this time. It isn’t your fault, either, John. It’s mine. Always mine. If you were your story, sometimes I might be the villain… 

But I don’t say anything at all. Which leads you to roll your eyes and sigh loudly, exasperatedly. You stood up at some point, and are now wondering towards the desk, fingers flittering through stacks of papers, eyes skimming closed cases. Cases I had no choice but to do alone. 

Then you stop. And your fingers freeze. Your voice is calmer again, but still tense. I don’t blame you. 

“…Are these letters?” You ask, holding three envelopes of varying wear addressed with an unmistakable ‘John Watson.’ 

“Obviously,” I say, voice wary. 

“And they’re addressed to me…” you continue.

It’s my turn to roll my eyes. “Yes, John. I wrote them.”

“Can I read them?” You ask quietly. 

“No.” My answer is immediate. 

“Why not?”

Because when you’re finished, you’ll be appalled and annoyed and disgusted and maybe even horrified of me. You’ll know that I am a sociopath and that I am not. You’ll know how I think. You’ll know that I love you, and that is the most frightening factor of it all. Please don’t read them. You won’t look at me the same again. 

“Because I don’t want you to,” is what comes out of my mouth. 

You lick your lips, “Sherlock, I—“

And suddenly it’s just too much. All of it. “Fine,” I snap, closing my eyes. “Fine, read them. I don’t care. It doesn’t mean anything to me, okay?!” 

Your face slackens. 

“I’m going out. For a case,” I tell you, sliding on my coat. “A double murder. I know where the killer is staying the night…”

You stand still, eyes trained on my face. But you don’t follow. 

My eyes ask if you’re coming. Your eyes tell me you’re staying. Naturally you’d stay. As only is to be expected. We don’t do this anymore, you and I. So I turn out the door, alone, and hurt. “Goodbye, John,” I mutter over my shoulder. I hate feelings. The world is void of light once more. 

I know you hear me; you say nothing in return. 

~~~

John Watson stands in 221B, letters pinched between index and thumb. Sherlock was upset. Why? 

He shouldn’t read the letters, he knows that much. But John Watson is only human, and he is undeniably curious. 

Without further thought, he tears open the most rumpled envelope of the three with a slip of his thumb. 

‘Dear John Watson,’ it begins…


	5. An Epiphany

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson reads the letters

The words say everything. John begins the first letter warily, but soon his eyes fly across the paper. The ink tells him everything he’s never known. The smudges answer the questions that have burned and smoldered in his mind since the very beginning, since ‘Afghanistan or Iraq?’ 

(The wind is cold and the pelting raindrops sting. They’re the reason my eyes are watering, obviously. Because I am a man of fading emotions. So soon, without you, I won’t be anything but machinery once again.) 

Sherlock loves him. 

(You attempt to stitch yourself into my life, but can’t you understand that all you’re doing is fraying ripped seams? The rain chills its way through me, would be freezing my heart had that vital part of my anatomy not already been destroyed.)

Sherlock loves him and John feels like stardust. 

(You aren’t here alongside me in the London streets, you wouldn’t come with me, you didn’t choose me. I should obstruct you from invading my mind. I am on a case. I am on a case.)

‘Sincerely, Your Sociopath.’ Concludes the contents of the first envelope. There are still two more. John Watson stands stock still. The flat itself, the shuffling of Mrs. Hudson downstairs, Mary at home, none of it means anything in his mind.

The single surviving presence in the consciousness of Doctor John Watson holds the title of Consulting Detective, and there’s only one in the world. 

(I am on a case. Why doesn’t that matter like it used to? What am I thinking— of course the work matters. The work is everything. I am married to my work. It’s all I have. And right now, I am not wasting my time being emotional over you, even though I know I will never stop loving you. I am busy. I am catching a serial killer. Get out of my head, John.)

It’s hard to swallow, and John doesn’t know why.

He’s reaching for his cup of tea, and doesn’t care in the least that it’s cold. As he sips, John’s eyes are drawn to the window. Ivy. John thinks. Our flat would look beautiful with ivy. Our flat. And then he remembers Mary, and how this is Sherlock’s flat, now. Just Sherlock’s. 

But Mary doesn’t matter, in this second. Not after revelation. Because Sherlock… oh, Sherlock. Sherlock means everything to John Watson. 

He picks up the next letter with gentle fingers, running his fingertips over the spidery handwriting that addresses the words to him and only him. With each line read, John’s heart rate quickens. God, he feels… he feels everything.

(An email the killer’s brother’s electrician forgot to delete solidified that the killer would be right here, right now. So where is he? A gunshot echoes, and my question is answered.)

By the end of the second letter, John’s blue eyes are dark and wet and glistening with unshed tears.

Reading the first letter, John was in awe. And then—and then he felt his heart torn from the cavity of his chest. The third letter is guilt and regret and remorse. Take the factors, and multiply them by one thousand. John presses the heels of his hands into his eyes and takes a deep, quivering breath. 

(I stumble, falling against the stone wall of the alleyway. I look down at my open coat. The rain-soaked white shirt beneath it is stained crimson, now. I can’t breath. I can’t breath. Where are you? You should be here; You always are here. You could save me. I trusted you to save me, you’ve done it before. I slide down the wall, slumping into the gutter.)

Finally, John can see Sherlock, really see him. The man who he’d spent years of his life with, mourned over, has been exposed in the most human way in these three simple letters. 

(My fingers, I can barely get them to work. I want to call you. I want to tell you with my own voice that I think I love you—that I know I love you. That you are the one who’s brought me to life. I want to tell you that I’m dying and I wish you were the one killing me instead of a fucking bullet. This is no way to go, when I cannot look into you eyes and I do not want to die. John, I want to live. Even if you love Mary, I want to see you and be there for you and love you. Even if it will only always be one-sided.)

Sherlock’s emotions, that John wondered if he’d even possessed at times, are spilt onto the pages in front of John’s eyes. And they are beautiful. 

(I know I don’t have enough time left to call you. Will you miss me? I can barely muster the strength to press a few feeble buttons on my phone to dial the police. An ambulance will come too late to save me, but soon enough to try. Pain shoots through my body, my transport, pumping in sync with my pulse. I can’t keep my eyes open. I can’t keep my mind rational. Fantasies and realities collide. I am everywhere with you, before I realize that I am nowhere but here. Alone.)

The letters come with an epiphany of sorts, clear as day. John Watson knows now that he loves Sherlock Holmes. He always has. 

(With parted lips bluing with the cold, I dedicate my last breath to you. “John.”)

John’s mouth opens, inside 221B, and he breathes a single word as if he were dying and it alone could save his life. “Sherlock.” 

Ambulance and police sirens are soft and muted behind the windows of the flat. The faded blues and reds aren’t even noticed by John Watson, who sits in a haze of euphoria, waiting for the moment Sherlock Holmes comes crashing through the front door. The moment John can tell him the only honest truth in the world. Sherlock, I love you, he is planning to say. 

What a ruthless world we live in. 

What a shattered life this is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm feeling pretty guilty for 1. writing that and 2. not writing it sooner.  
> I've already got the next couple chapters all typed up and edited, so I'll update soon!  
> Thank you all so much for reading. Feedback is appreciated! 
> 
> Ps. I was listening to Take Me To Church by Hozier while writing. If you like alternative music, I'd definitely give it a go (:


	6. In Response

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John writes a letter back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you like John's letter! Also, thank you so much for reading my fanfic. It would make my day if you spent a second or two leaving feedback (:

Dear Sherlock,

I don’t know how I am going to write a letter to you, now. But you wrote me letters, and this is all I can do in return for everything you did for me. I miss you so incredibly much. This is a letter of everything I wish I had told you. Everything I wish you had said.

I’ll start with this. I love you. 

I sat in our flat that night. The night when… when you left. The night I read your letters and I realized how much of my life I’ve lived wrong, because Sherlock, I love you. 

I thought I might’ve loved you, at times. Really, I did. I guess you knew that, since you knew everything, but I refused to admit that I was wrong to marry Mary. No matter how many times I have denied it, no matter how many times I have told myself that no, I do not have feelings for my flatmate, I still do. 

I never acted upon my feelings, because maybe you were rubbing off on me. You and your walls of unbreakable cement and stone. You bury your every emotion. Now, though, I know that you felt more than maybe anyone ever has. But neither of us had what—the guts?—to do something about anything. That is my biggest regret. 

And now you are gone and I am alone and we will never be something, because you’re dead. You and I Sherlock, we could have spent our lives chasing criminals and solving puzzles and growing old together. Maybe we’d have retired in Sussex. We could have kept bees, perhaps? No. No, you would find bees dull, wouldn’t you? I wish I could ask. There are so many things I wish I could ask you. But I can’t because you are dead. I feel as though it is my fault. 

You see, Sherlock, if I just followed you out into the rain… if I stayed along your side like I always should have… if I just kept you from chasing the bastard down and convinced you to stay with me, you’d be sitting across from me on your chair. You might be playing me your violin and I would be grinning like an idiot because I love you. 

And I miss you, too. I miss your violin—even at the ungodly hours of the morning. I miss your bloody experiments. I check my phone sometimes, just to see if you’ve texted me. Fuck habit. Your name will never again light up my lousy mobile screen, will it? 

Christ, Sherlock, can’t it all be pretend? Please. For me, just come back once more. You’ve eluded death twice before, and I know they say third time’s the charm, and I know that this time you are definitely not coming back to me. Sherlock. I need you. You said you were my chaos, and that I can’t live without you. Well you were right, you always are. 

That night I read the letters, I knew I loved you. I waited and waited and waited for you to come back, to burst through the door, curls dripping with raindrops. Your face would be lit up with one of those rare, genuine smiles because you caught the killer and you proved your genius. 

I made you tea. Then the tea got cold. So I made you another cup, and it too got cold. Three cups later, and I had no choice but to call Lestrade. He didn’t know where you were. I was worried. 

Looking back at the moment, I should have observed. You tell me I see but do not observe and now I understand. Police sirens rang and their lights flashed, but I didn’t even care. I should have, because they were yours. I should have been with you. 

I think, if you came back to me that night, I would have kissed you like I did once so long ago. I would have told Mary that I love you and Mary would have understood. 

I miss your eyes. When I was with Mary, you were always closing them, as if it hurt to look at things. I should have noticed then, but I was so blatantly oblivious. Nowadays, every detail of you clouds my brain cells. That face you made when you heard of an interesting case or the one you’d make when I was so frustratingly ordinary or when nobody understood the intelligent jumble spilling from your lips. 

A lot of people went to your funeral; I don’t know if you care. I don’t think you do. But I want you to know that you have made an impact on so many lives, Sherlock. 

I want you to know another thing. A desire of yours has come true, remember when you wrote about it? You wanted to be my nightmares. Now you are. I wake screaming because your corpse is bleeding out before my eyes. I wake sobbing in harmony to the haunting tune of your empty violin melody that only I can hear at three in the morning. 

In the middle of the night, when I can’t sleep (which is usually) I’ll whisper apologies to you. I’ll breath my regrets to you. I’ll murmur stories and memories under my breath to nothing but the thought of you. If Mary hears, she says nothing. 

I know you don’t believe in Heaven. I know you don’t believe in Hell either, or any sort of meaningless afterlife for the faith-driven masses of mindless idiots. You were always so scientific. Still, I believe that you are somewhere right now and maybe—just maybe—you can read what I write. Maybe, someday, I will be able to see you again. 

There is ivy on our flat, I want you to know. I put it there. 

Is it strange, that sometimes I look at it and tears spill from my eyes? I convince myself I am strong, but Sherlock, I feel like I’m broken. Why did you leave? You know what? Fuck sentiment, too. 

I know it wasn’t your choice. I know I shouldn’t have left you for Mary. I know I made you suffer, and I am more sorry for that than for anything I have done in my life, and I have killed men, I’ll let you know. 

All I desire is a second chance at life with you, Sherlock Holmes. I miss your brilliance.

I miss you more than I had thought possible, and it surprises me. 

You always were amazing me. I love you so much, Sherlock Holmes. 

Sincerely,  
John Watson


	7. And After

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the final chapter of 'Sincerely, Your Sociopath.'  
> Thank you all for spending time to read it.  
> It means so much to me!  
> Please feel free to review, comment, criticize, etc.  
> Also, sorry that it's a bit short. I didn't want to stretch it out unnecessarily!

Baker Street is strange. All of London is, really. Faded and a little bit fuzzy. Thinking on it, John can’t remember how he got here. Wasn’t he just in Sussex? With Mary? The buildings and streets are completely empty and void of even the slightest noise. Never before has John Watson been subject to such utter silence. Everything’s just a bit more clean, just a little more perfect than he remembers. 

Something is off…

There, just before him, is the door to 221B. He hasn’t been here in decades, and it’s exactly as he has remembered it. If only—if only Sherlock was still here with him. Sherlock Holmes who’s been dead for years. Sherlock Holmes who John has missed his entire life. 

So John steps up to the door and wraps his fingers around the knocker. That’s when he notices that his hand is not mapped and layered with crevices of wrinkles and frail, papery skin. No, it’s calloused and tough and his fingers are those of a doctor’s. John bites his cheek, tilts his head, and furrows his eyebrows. This is… odd. 

He pushes open the door. Wafting and dancing down the stairs before him in its soft beauty is music brought forth from Sherlock’s violin. Its light tune wraps around him. 

John closes his eyes and takes a deep breath as the corners of his mouth tug into a smile. 

The steps he takes are not an old man’s wobbly and weak gait. They’re strong again, like they were when he was younger. Each stair brings him closer to the dusty light glimmering through the door to their flat, cracked open just so. 

He trails his fingertips along the wallpaper. As he leans onto the final stair, the wood beneath him creaks, and the violin halts on a ringing note.

The silence is so full and pure that John can hear the slight intake of breath from inside the room. 

John opens the final barrier separating him from the man he knows will be standing on the other side of the door. And he is. 

Sherlock Holmes is standing, violin in hand, silhouetted by the window’s soft light. He looks just as he did on the night he withdrew from John’s life that final time. His pale eyes are piercing, his skin alabaster and free from the wrinkles of age, his dark hair still tangled in its lopsided curls. 

There are two cups of tea on the table. There’s a skull on the mantel. There are bullet holes and spray paint faces on the wall, and there is some sort of an experiment in the kitchen. 

John catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror over the mantel, and he isn’t old and wrinkled and grey. No, John Watson can barely be forty. He’s the same age he was during the years he spent with Sherlock, wearing his favourite sandstone-coloured jumper he had lost years ago. 

Sherlock stands staring. “John,” he whispers. “What took you so long?”

“…Where are we?”

“221B Baker Street, I suppose,” Sherlock says. Then he breaks into one of those rare, genuine smiles, and John grins back. 

“I never did believe in any sort of afterlife…” Sherlock continues. “I guess you could say ‘I told you so’ right about now, couldn’t you?” A soft, embarrassed laugh escapes his lips. 

John’s smile trembles. “I’ve missed you,” His voice cracks. 

“I love you,” Sherlock replies. “I’ve wanted to tell you for so long, John. I love you.”

“I love you, too, Sherlock. I love you, too. I always have.”


End file.
